Gabrielle was eighteen, tall, slim, and singularly graceful. The severity of her aquiline features was relieved by the bluest eyes and a most delicate pink and white complexion; webs of auburn hair flowed over her shoulders. She cast a curious glance at her lover’s singular companions; she was surprised and vexed that Bellegarde had not come alone, and to find him cold and reserved. However, any shortcomings on his part were amply made up by the cordial accolade of the Spanish Don, who extolled her beauty to her face, and, without asking permission, kissed her on the cheek. Gabrielle’s delicacy was hurt at this freedom; she reproached herself for the frankness with which she had received strangers, believing them to be friends of her lover. Casting a helpless glance at him, she looked down, blushed and retreated to a distant part of the room, where she seated herself. “Pray, madame, excuse our friend,” said Chicot, seeing the confusion of Gabrielle at such unexpected familiarity; “he is a Spaniard, only newly arrived in France; he is quite unacquainted with the usages of the country.” “By the mass!” cried Bellegarde, evidently ill at ease, and placing himself in front of his love, “Spaniard, indeed! I, for my part, know no country in the world where gentlemen are permitted, thus uninvited, to salute the ladies--at least, in civilised latitudes. It is well Mademoiselle’s father was not present.” His annoyance was, however, quite lost on the Don, who, his eyes fixed in bold admiration on Gabrielle, did not heed it. “Bellegarde,” said Gabrielle, blushing to her forehead, seeing his deeply-offended look, “excuse this stranger, I entreat, for my sake; I am sure he meant no offence. Let not the joy I feel at seeing you be overcast by this little occurrence.” And she rose, advanced to where he stood, looked fondly at him, and took his hand in both of hers. This appeal was enough. Bellegarde, though anxious, was no longer angry, and, upon Gabrielle’s invitation, the party seated themselves, Gabrielle placing herself beside Bellegarde. “This gentleman, madame,” said Chicot, turning towards Gabrielle, “whose admiration of you has led him to offend, is our prisoner; he surrendered to us yesterday in the _mêlée_ at Marly, and, his ransom paid, to-morrow morning he will start to join the army of the Duke of Parma. Though somewhat hot-headed and wilful he is an excellent soldier; he knows how to behave in the battle-field, if his manners are otherwise too free,” and Chicot turned round his head and winked at Don Juan, who laughed. “At least, gentlemen, now you are here,” said Gabrielle, “by whatever chance--and the chance must be good that brings you to me” (and her blue eyes turned towards Bellegarde)--“you will partake of some refreshment. I beg you to do so in the [Illustration: DIANA DE POITIERS, BY JEAN GOUJON. FROM THE CHÂTEAU OF ANET, NOW IN THE LOUVRE. (By permission of Levy, Paris.)]